


Quant Je Puis

by trash_bat



Category: British Actor RPF, British Comedy RPF, Nathan Barley (TV) RPF
Genre: Catholic School, Corporal Punishment, Dirty Talk, M/M, Messy, Orgasm Delay, Power Play, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 09:16:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18891640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_bat/pseuds/trash_bat
Summary: Chris and Charlie in the office, again. This time with more gentle dehumanization and a whole lotta spit.(Assume this takes place late in the first decade of the 2000s.)





	Quant Je Puis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wreathed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/gifts).



> Title from the [Stonyhurst College](https://www.stonyhurst.ac.uk/) motto: "As much as I can."

Daytime. The windows are wide open but the room is hot nonetheless. He can make out noises wafting up from the street below, the muffled sounds of nearby tenants, and fervently hopes Charlie can too, in his current state. Oh, it's easy enough to get him yowling at night, but daylight softens the proceedings. What would seem cruel at in the dark loses its sharp edge, becoming bright, crystalline. Easy.

They’ve been at it for a while. Since after lunch. Charlie’s on all fours and by now wearing only his jeans. His lips are parted and damp, his palms flat against the well-worn carpet. His feet are bare, toes curling in pleasure when he smacks his insteps, flexing in agony when he tickles them.

It’s enough to make him feel indulgent, leisurely with what he metes out. Work is finished for the day. They’ve got nowhere to be.

Charlie is off in his head. Too much? Yes, he decides, but a fierce, sudden backhand is enough to rouse him. He pauses, strokes the backs of his fingers down Charlie’s face, feeling it warm his fingernails, then cupping it in his palm.

Flames lick out from his belly, whispering seductive suggestions: _Hit him again_ they say _make him feel it_ and if that doesn’t do the trick then _make yourself feel it_ at least.

Charlie rocks forward against his hand, a suggestion of the feline about his position. His lower back dips down towards the floor, and he smiles indulgently. Charlie still thinks he can put one past him. That he can get away with things.

 _I see what you’re after_ he says, and reaches down across Charlie’s body to rub underneath his waistband. A sweet little sigh drifts up. Fucking _music_ , that. Better than any melody, any bass riff.

He holds fast their connection, pressing skin against skin, as he skims his hand all the way up Charlie’s bare back. A regular slap, with the other hand on the opposite cheek. Simply because he can. To hear Charlie gasp when he's hit. His palm smarts, Charlie's eyes fill. Again he sinks into his touch, absolutely unbidden. It’s the simplest, loveliest thing possible.

He won't say it, naturally. It would sound daft coming from him, to whom critique comes more easily than kindness. It’s been that way since he was a boy, when he’d thought it jolly good fun to dare his schoolmates to run fully clothed into the duckpond on the first real cold day in November, to break into St. Ignatius after midnight, to steal all the missals from St. Peter’s and bury them by torchlight beneath the foot of a tree.

Look. Even if he'd been caught, six with the tolly barely registered. Nine was decidedly worse; twice-nine? Truly unpleasant. The birch, he'll admit, that did hurt. Yet punishment, try as his masters might, never managed to deter him in the slightest. It'd been impossible to take seriously. And if his mates were caught out, sentenced to twelve across the hand? Bruised and angry, ashamed, guilty? Didn't upset him at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.

A brief detour into an impossible, meandering daydream: Charlie there with him at school, a day boy desperate to belong. Frightened beyond measure at being pushed into bad behaviour yet so eager to please he'd do anything to get his approval. He'd offer his own palms up, tears in his eyes before it even began, and the thought excites him, just as Charlie's prone state does now. His dick twitches against his leg.

He swallows, lets the thought melt away. Charlie doesn't believe in God. Pain he understands, though. And guilt, heaps of guilt. There's plenty to work with. He steels his focus. They're here now, in this warm little room, and Charlie is his to command as long as he likes, shivering into his hand, small noises coming from his throat.

 _I’m glad you managed to finally kick smoking_ he says conversationally, _well done with that_.

Charlie’s brow furrows as he looks up with glassy eyes. His mouth is slack in a way that makes his cock fatten further, but that’s not what either of them are after today. Well, he smiles indulgently, that’s a bit much. Charlie seems to be after it without fail. It's up to him then to puzzle through what he needs, what he deserves to be given.

 _Not yet he reassures. You’re all nice and clean, don’t you want to stay that way?_ He keeps his hand where it is, the heavy weight of Charlie’s head sagging against his palm.

 _Fuck_ Charlie rasps. _Fuck, Chris._ His eyelids flutter; open, closed, heavy-lidded, now open again. Almost, _almost_. There’s more he can offer; there’s further Charlie can fall.

 _Goodness me_ he says, and shifts his right thumb until it rests in the corner of Charlie’s mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips in a nervous flicker, quicker than a heartbeat. _Would you take a look at that._

 _Your little oral fixation, though_ he begins, only to be interrupted by a small moan. Charlie presses his lips together to stifle it, and that? That will never do. _It’s fine._ Hepets Charlie’s sweaty head with his free hand. _I like hearing you. Make all the noise you like._

The windows are open. People will hear. The neighbours will hear and passersby will hear and at some level, Charlie must know that they'll hear. And yet if he tells Charlie to be loud, then that is what he'll do. 

His thumb moves to the left, towards the centre of Charlie’s mouth where his lips are now pressed tightly together. He applies pressure there and says _open up for me, that's a good lad._ He touches his teeth with it, feeling the ridges as they slip past.

Charlie whimpers, lowers his pelvis closer to the floor as he slips his thumb in between his teeth, touches his tongue. His face pinkens. The inside of his mouth is warm and damp.

 _If only I could have you from both ends at once_ he says, voice dripping with affection and condescension in equal measure. A preposterous notion. The sheer mechanics of it are enough to boggle the mind. But, oh, Charlie gives out a happy little hum, and he hadn’t planned on using him this afternoon, but _Christ_. That noise might well force him to reconsider.

He adds his index finger, then the middle one, into the mix. Charlie opens up his mouth to receive them like benediction. There is enough spit rolling off his tongue to make the movement easier, and he peers down to see him receive the intrusion, the way his bare back undulates when he gags. 

They go on like this for a while, Charlie only too happy to receive slick, slack-jawed finger-fucking, when at last he says _tighten up for me, Charlie_. Charlie blinks, coming back to himself, and with an effortful heave purses his lips as directed. Softly, _softly._

 _I suppose we could try_ he continues, watching the way Charlie works his body along the crotch of his jeans, in perfect synchronicity with the thrusting movement of his fingers. _Mount something on the coffee table, maybe. The wall? I hear there are even things you can strap on to a sofa cushion. We’ll have to look in at Prowler again soon._

Around his wet fingers, Charlie grunts. It comes as no surprise that he's absolutely gone for it.

Where does he go off to? Whatever does it feel like? Well. Good, from the looks of it. He carries on, emboldened, Charlie's evident pleasure a current beneath his skin. 

_Shall we have you do the asking this time? It seems I’m the only one who can be bothered with questions. Strikes me as patently unfair — it’s your arse that’s going to be stuffed full to bursting, not mine._

Spit runs out from Charlie’s mouth onto his chin, gathering in drips that threaten to spill onto the carpet. He swipes through it with his thumb, smearing it further around Charlie’s mouth and chin. It glistens in the bright light. Charlie’s appeal, he’s certain, comes from his capacity to look utterly used up no matter how little or how long he’s toyed with him. His eyes go in and out of focus, and it’s simply perfect. His own easy power, Charlie’s unthinking surrender.

An overwhelming affection surges up in his breast. He squeezes Charlie’s damp, scratchy chin, his hand slipping in the saliva and resolving itself into a slick fist. He does it again, and then smacks him once more for good measure. Wet, it hurts worse. He hooks his thumb into Charlie’s mouth for purchase. Held open like that he chokes on his spit, foams a little at his open mouth. The sensation sends a convulsive shiver down to his bare toes.

 _Filthy creature_ he says, with all the warmth he can muster. _You really are gagging for it aren’t you?_

Charlie’s pink mouth falls open. Another rivulet of saliva drips down his chin where it makes its unhurried way onto his neck. 

 _It only takes one look at you to know what you’re like_ he says, and wipes the excess spit down Charlie's windpipe with a tight grip. Only a suggestion, but he smiles, an inscrutable half-smile, to himself.

Charlie scrunches his eyes closed. He moans, but the moan is cut short as he cradles the whole of his jaw in one hand, thumb beneath one earlobe and his other four striving their best to reach the other. It is hard to gain purchase, everything all slick, but he digs in with his fingertips and presses Charlie's cheeks together until his lips pucker up. His breath heaves as he holds him there, his hands almost lifting off the floor with the force of it. When he's released he makes a pained sound — hard on the wrists, he has been down there for ages — and slurps what drool he can back into his mouth. 

His hips haven't stopped rocking rhythmically against the air, and he pauses to imagine how hard he must be, how chafed his cock is from rubbing against the damp inside of his jeans. 

 _Charlie_ he says _Charlie, come back to me._

Charlie's eyes refocus. He rasps when he speaks.  _Chris, please._

_Please what?_

_I need to come._

_You don’t_ he pauses for effect _need anything. Get that into your tiny little brain, Charlie._

Charlie nods fervently and he feels stupid, fond. He does need it, is the thing. Needs to be denied and then some; needs to be kept keen and then overpowered; needs to be kept second-guessing himself, ashamed and yet unspeakably aroused by his own perverse psychology. 

 _Do you want to?_ he asks.  _Want , mind you. _

The answer is hoarse. Desperation rolls off him in waves, enough to give a goddamn nun an erection.  _I want to._

He sidesteps the wet patch on the carpet and bends to unfasten Charlie's jeans. His hand, already mussed from Charlie's saliva, comes away tacky. Gravity takes care of the task for him. When he lets go Charlie's dick springs down, heavy between his legs. 

 _Tsk_ he tuts. _You’re going to drip all over my floor_ he says in the most even, bored tone imaginable. 

Charlie's arms are shaking as he forces himself to hold still. From outside, an ambulance passes by, the sound growing louder and then fading into the distance. The sun has slanted further across the room, leaving half of Charlie's body in shadow. They'll need to eat at some point. He's gasping for a cigarette. 

But all that is incidental. Charlie is all that matters at this particular moment. Why, there's no limit to what he could do or say. They're trapped up here in this room, this arrangement, and yet he reckons Charlie feels as free as he does. 

I _would call you inconsiderate, but that's far too generous. You're just a mucky little piglet, aren't you? Making yourself a mud hole to writhe around in._

One awful, wheezy, punch-drunk noise is coughed up from Charlie's lungs, but he stays put. Even when the sound turns into a prolonged cough from what has to be a dry throat. It's so fucking good. 

 _Better_ he says and presses his thumb and index finger together to squeeze his cock, stroke him over and over. Root to tip until a shiny glob of precome seeps out and drips with excruciating slowness off the puffy tip. He does this until there are two damp spots on the floor instead of one, evaporating in the afternoon sunlight.

Charlie whimpers. 

 _It hurts,_ he thinks, _it hurts and it's because of me and he'll do whatever I ask._

He touches Charlie's back again, encourages him to fuck into his hand. _It's what you've been after_ he says, dropping his voice to match the pitch of Charlie's hums.  _It's all right._

At first he is cautious, rolling his hips with the familiarity of someone who's been cheated out of more than one orgasm in the past. But after a few moments  _—_ when it seems he isn't planning to drop his hand, or smack Charlie's cock, or shove him face down into the wet patch on the carpet  _—_ he speeds up his tempo. 

He watches Charlie's movements with a heated smirk, and when he becomes erratic, on the brink, then he does let go. Charlie pitches forward, forehead nearly coming into contact with the floor, and cries out pitifully. He looks over to the side, a question on his reddened face, _can I will I will you let me will you make me._

He pushes himself up to standing. Walks away. His vision is cloudy and it takes him a moment to locate his desk, even though it's right there, only a few feet in front of him. 

From the drawer he extricates a fresh pack of cigarettes, which he theatrically thumps against his palm until they're packed. He sticks one into his mouth and pauses, examining Charlie as he writhes  _—_ sorry, no other word for it  _—_ on his floor. 

 _Get down on the ground_ he says and Charlie scrambles to obey.  _You can finish yourself off like that._ He lights the cigarette, relishing Charlie's discomfort, his desire. The wants he cannot have, the things he's denied himself or been denied. 

He strides over to the window so he doesn't fog up the place.  _I'll know if you use your hands_  he says and waves the cigarette about as punctuation.  _Hurry along, Charlie. I'm only going to give you until_ _this is finished._

And then he takes a puff, and grins out the open window to nobody in particular, and everyone who might be out there. 


End file.
